Summary:JP breaks back into the Brooklyn Apartment only to find the Lease Owner wanting to know why someone's breaking into it. Whoo-boy Log Info:Storyteller: None |
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Getting into the 403 brownstone apartment in Brooklyn, New York is not hard if you have the key and your name is still on the lease. Maybe it is that the lease is up that draws the other former tenant back, or concerns about the world's most self destructive poor bastard that draws all portents together this St. Patrick's Day. Could even be less great news, but as it sits over the last year Clint's been gone running two long ops he hasn't been cleared to discuss and has somehow been keeping busy. Laying low isn't new.
What is new is the black leather furniture where the big empty space in the living room used to be. Really Bobbi left just the TV and the club chairs but now? Now those damn comfy chairs that matched the sofa are gone and all of this is here next to the- Oh. yeah, of course he's got a hammock. Why would he not have a hammock? At least everything isn't on the floor and the tiny trash bin in the bathroom seems replaced. Huh.
Bobbi has been periodically and anonymously checking in on Ex-Husband #1 since they parted ways. About once a quarter, when he doesn't appear to be home, she lets herself in with the key she never gave back, and deposits a care package on his kitchen counter. Today, in the amazon box with the address blacked out with a sharpie, is a large container of ground coffee, a bag of coffee filters for his machine, an enormous box of band-aids (all they had was My Little Pony, sorry Clint), and an economy sized vat of ibuprofen. She knows her ex well.
She keys open the door and steps inside, eyeing the strange furnishings with a grimace as she uses a hip to close the door behind her and heads to the kitchen area, setting the box down on the counter with a grunt. "I left him the damn chairs, I thought he liked those," she mutters. The SHIELD agent is in jeans, a slogan tee reading "Ask me about my feminist agenda", and boots with a leather jacket.
The fridge has the usual fare: leftovers from Wing Sing. He might turn into lo mien at this rate, but at least the place, and the few things in the sink, leave evidence that the place has been used recently. Weirdly all seems utterly quiet. Perhaps it's to so strange as she's made expert timing of these visits to avoid direct contact.
All seems quiet in Brooklyn… except for the sound of someone on the fire escape and the window opening.
So many years as a field agent, and several as an Avenger, have Barbara Morse fully on alert at all times. This is no exception. The blonde swipes the glass coffee pot out of the machine and crouches down behind the little island, going silent and stealthy. Clint doesn't come in through his window. This isn't him.
Through the window pokes a head of someone that looks like they're made of trouble and bad life choices. Today's exceptionally bad life choice is sneaking up on Bobbi Morse in what is very technically her apartment by breaking into it.
5'10", lean, athletic, not really strong in any classic sense. Thief not a thug. Treat: low. Day: about to get very bad for not Bobbi. The window slides shit and heavy boots carry the perp halfway across the room stopping on the other side of the kitchen island. A duffel bag is dropped down on the floor, and the speak of the sleeves of his biker jacket are audible as he sets something else, heavy, on the counter not too far from Bobbi's position on the other side.
He picked the wrong tenement craphole to break into, clearly. Bobbi sweeps around the island and grips the handle of the coffee carafe, using it like a set of brass knuckles as she attempts to punch the thief in the side of the face with it. "Pretty sure you're not on the lease!" Mockingbird, ladies and gentlemen.
JP really was so not expecting that. Being assailed in the apartment was the last list of things to do on today's agenda. It connects solidly leaving the young punk just dazed. That's going to be felt tomorrow. Whoever the hell this blond lady is packs a mean swing leaving the Cajun's head reeling. Is he trained? No, not really. Can he fight? Yup, learning the hard way. His arm comes up to block his head trying to get his vision cleared and fast. That accent is thicker than molasses, "Que se passe-t-il?!" or more commonly: What the hell, lady!?
"Get on your knees, hands behind your head," Bobbi orders, holding the carafe threateningly. At least it didn't smash, she doesn't feel like buying Clint a new one. Her other hand is going for zipties in her coat pocket. She's a SHIELD agent, she's always prepared. Wait, that's the boyscouts. Anyway, always prepared.
JP frowns looking at her wryly and slowly assesses the situation, head just smarting on one side trying to assess the situation. "Uhhhh I do no' do zip ties without no safe word, lady. Someone hire you for this? One m'guys?!" Oh, was she possibly mistaken for a violent call girl or is he flirting with her? It's so hard to tell. There is, however, on the counter a cardboard box, top flaps closed. Still he backs up just a bit to assess.
"This is my apartment," Bobbi declares menacingly, the coffee pot held ready to clock him again if he doesn't comply. Well her name is still on the lease and she still has a key. Just because she's not supposed to be here doesn't make her…ok maybe it does. But still! Name. On. Lease! "Who the hell are you, Pepe le Pew?!"
Shuffle, Shuffle, Shuffle…
Clint trods up the staircase the 4 floors with leaden feet, his head hanging loosely forward when it isn't dropped backward, like a petulant child who is being dragged grocery shopping.
Yeah, he's been dark, so it's no surprise he's sporting a new bruise across his cheek and a new butterfly bandage across the bridge of his nose. but hey, no broken bones, ma! the only one NOT dressed in leather, the loose tee shirt and faded jeans are honestly his own impromptu uniform at this point. Light, denim jacket included. For irony. Or so he says.
Plodding up the stairs and to the apartment door, he doesn't think twice about the lock and instead just tries the door itself while he fishes out his keys with—oop! bandages on his fingers. Cool.
The door pushes open freely and…uh. There he stands. Confused and framed in the doorway when he looks up and comes upon the full glory of Mockingbird ex-wifey defending the nest from, erm, well.
"Uh," he says elegantly, lifting one hand with a loose curl of his fingers. "Am I interrupting?"
JP tilts his head trying to figure this one out. "I ain't Pepe, I'm JP." Flicking a look to Clint and back to Bobbi cause she's the armed one he shrugs at the question, "Uhhhh you may wanna go talk to you land lady cause this crazy lady with the coffee pot is tryin to housejack the apartment."
Bobbi's head whips around to the opening door and she grimaces at Clint's appearance. She mentally notes he'll likely need more than the giant box of band-aids she brought to cover the next couple months. "I caught this little rat breaking in through the fire escape window. I was…" um, what was she here doing? "I came to check on the chairs? Where did the chairs go?" Oi. That was lame.
Stormy blues flick back and forth between the two people in defensive posture in the department as his hand drops back down to his side. A sigh of resignation drops next as his head swings low and Clint finishes fishing his keys out of his pocket, chucking them lazily onto the island where the boxes rest. It's a very lackluster response to the heightened energy around the place right now. Nudging the door closed with the heel of a sneaker, Clint shakes his head and lifts a hand, waving away Bobbi's question first, defensively. "They were stolen."
Not UNtrue…
Plodding feet entirely unlike an agent, spy OR ninja's carry Clint further into the space, his expression helplessly resigned with the tiniest quirk of a smile. Well. This was bound to happen, eventually. He was just hoping to be dead for it. He slides that expression to JP, "Yeah…I don't think Missus Johanson is going to do anything about this one."
Then turns to fully address Bobbi. One hand sliding home into his pocket as a foot scuffs to a stop, he looks her dead in the eye with that funny little quirk of a tired smile. Rather than an asskicking, the bedraggled man says with a peculiar amount of warmth and guardedness, "How's tricks, Bob?"
Because clearly her nickname needed a nickname. That was necessary. Clint Barton, the prince of 'unnecessary shit'.
JP stands there hands hovering in the air prepared for a … well hell if he knew. Generally he didn't fight women but this one just smacked him with a coffee pot for a grand slam of snackrilige. "Why don' we jes- " words get cut off looking to Clint all too casual and waiting for some other news, word, something from him when- "Aw merde, you're Bob?" Looking to Clint he points with both fingers to her, "This is you lady?" JP, street king of informing people they already know and he just now found out. Huh! Looking back to the armed gal he holds his hands up disengaging from the conflict, "Uh, hi? Can we maybe put down the coffee pot down so it does no' get hurt?"
"You really need a security system, Clint," Bobbi says with a wrinkle of her pert nose. She's still holding that carafe like brass knuckles, threatening the sanctity of JP's noggin with it. "That doesn't answer the bigger question. Why is Inspector Clouseau here breaking into your place?" As Clint seems less than alarmed at the guy being in here, she slooooowly sets the coffee pot on the island, but her eyes do NOT leave JP.
Clint's eyebrow popped up at JP in a tired manner, "Yeah. This is her."
Swinging himself back in Bobbi's direction, he helplessly scrubs the back of his neck. "I have one," protesting, the same hand cuts over in jP's direction, signifying the Cajun in leather. "He's just not Morse-proof.
Is that an answer? Not really.
Clint pivots to looks back and forth between the two, somewhat awkwardly. " This is JP. He lives here.
Here. In the one bedroom. He's not really adept at this sort of introduction. Shying away awkwardly.
JP holds his hands up giving Clint a squint look narrowing his eyes, no accusatory but in defense, "Everyone kept yellin at me for livin out of my car." Integrity defense mechanisms. Turning to Bobbi he points to Clint, "I'm not responsible for what happened to his face." Still Bobbi gets a once over, not gawking at least. "Sooooo, am I in trouble?"pointing to the window and back leveling with the other apartment owner, "Look the fire-escape is quicker an' less chatty than the land lady. She ask me twenty-seven questions about everythin and while I'm glad t' talk about certain things some days there ain't so much time."
Bobbi's face goes to a very distinct mask of blank neutrality. Clint knows that look. That's the shutting down poker face, keeping any real reaction hidden. "I see. Well, I should be on my way then. If the chairs aren't here anymore…" and someone else is. She doesn't need to be here. "Sorry about the," she gestures at the spot on JP's face that will likely bruise. She hustles towards the door, noping right on out of there.
Clint holds out both of his hands when JP says he's not responsible for Clint's face. A very 'the fuck, man?' sort of look. It lasts for only a quick second before he's turning back to Bobbi and is given Agent face.
He sobers up and tightens his jaw with a flex of the petite muscles, staring back at her in one of those lingering looks of silent conversation. Be cool. But then she's fleeing and Clint winces, pivoting around to 'chase' without actually chasing. "Bobbi," the 'c'moooooon' plaitiff in his voice as he plants both hands on his hips. "I still got the chairs…" but he doesn't actually stop her from leaving.
Instead, Barton just stands there and drops his head down, chin to his chest.
"…crap."
JP still has the door tagged and leaves it shut. Sorry Bobbi! It's better on all parties right? Hell he'd talk to Mozelle again if he could and seems to be encouraging Clint to work on his parts of his life all the same. It's the window that slides open though, on its own. JP takes a few steps back toward the window offering to Clint, "Talk to her. Yous all get on me about Mozelle. She bring you band-aids dude. ''Talk'' to her." He sits on the window ledge boggling at the blonde, "Hey I didn't want her hurtin me for bein the one who dinged you up. She hits like an angry train." He nods and gives him that look of go on, everything's fine. Take care of your things. He doesn't keep the door hostage though, only enough to slow down the escape. "I'll be at the garage. Call me later."
Bobbi doesn't respond to the plaintive request, instead just holding up a hand as she strides out, leaving behind the box. Inside looks like the results of a Costco run, all the things supersized. Coffee, coffee filters, band-aids (sadly My Little Pony was all they had) and a vat of ibuprofen. She's tugging on the door relentlessly until it finally opens, and she shuts it behind her, maybe a little harder than necessary.
